Poems List

Thrushes

Thrushes
Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim,
Whose voices make the emptiness of light
A windy palace. Quavering from the brim
Of dawn, and bold with song at edge of night,
They clutch their leafy pinnacles and sing
Scornful of man, and from his toils aloof
Whose heart's a haunted woodland whispering;
Whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing;
Who hears the cry of God in everything,
And storms the gate of nothingness for proof.
84

Their Frailty

Their Frailty
He's got a Blighty wound. He’s safe; and then
War’s fine and bold and bright.
She can forget the doomed and prisoned men
Who agonize and fight.
He’s back in France. She loathes the listless strain
And peril of his plight,
Beseeching Heaven to send him home again,
She prays for peace each night.
Husbands and sons and lovers; everywhere
They die; War bleeds us white
Mothers and wives and sweethearts,—they don’t care
So long as He’s all right.
88

The Troops

The Troops
Dim, gradual thinning of the shapeless gloom
Shudders to drizzling daybreak that reveals
Disconsolate men who stamp their sodden boots
And turn dulled, sunken faces to the sky
Haggard and hopeless. They, who have beaten down
The stale despair of night, must now renew
Their desolation in the truce of dawn,
Murdering the livid hours that grope for peace.
Yet these, who cling to life with stubborn hands,
Can grin through storms of death and find a gap
In the clawed, cruel tangles of his defence.
They march from safety, and the bird-sung joy
Of grass-green thickets, to the land where all
Is ruin, and nothing blossoms but the sky
That hastens over them where they endure
Sad, smoking, flat horizons, reeking woods,
And foundered trench-lines volleying doom for doom.
O my brave brown companions, when your souls
Flock silently away, and the eyeless dead
Shame the wild beast of battle on the ridge,
Death will stand grieving in that field of war
Since your unvanquished hardihood is spent.
And through some mooned Valhalla there will pass
Battalions and battalions, scarred from hell;
The unreturning army that was youth;
The legions who have suffered and are dust.
111

The Rear-Guard

The Rear-Guard
Groping along the tunnel, step by step,
He winked his prying torch with patching glare
From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.
Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know,
A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed;
And he, exploring fifty feet below
The rosy gloom of battle overhead.
Tripping, he grapped the wall; saw someone lie
Humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug,
And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug.
"I'm looking for headquarters." No reply.
"God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep.)
"Get up and guide me through this stinking place."
Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap,
And flashed his beam across the livid face
Terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore
Agony dying hard ten days before;
And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound.
Alone he staggered on until he found
Dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair
To the dazed, muttering creatures underground
Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.
At last, with sweat of horror in his hair,
He climbed through darkness to the twilight air,
Unloading hell behind him step by step.
91

The Road

The Road
The road is thronged with women; soldiers pass
And halt, but never see them; yet they’re here—
A patient crowd along the sodden grass,
Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear.
The road goes crawling up a long hillside,
All ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs
Of battle thrown in heaps. Here where they died
Are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs,
And dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight,
Stare up at caverned darkness winking white.
You in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling Jock,
You tottered here and fell, and stumbled on,
Half dazed for want of sleep. No dream would mock
Your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone.
You did not feel her arms about your knees,
Her blind caress, her lips upon your head.
Too tired for thoughts of home and love and ease,
The road would serve you well enough for bed.
127

The Last Meeting

The Last Meeting
I
Because the night was falling warm and still
Upon a golden day at April’s end,
I thought; I will go up the hill once more
To find the face of him that I have lost,
And speak with him before his ghost has flown
Far from the earth that might not keep him long.
So down the road I went, pausing to see
How slow the dusk drew on, and how the folk
Loitered about their doorways, well-content
With the fine weather and the waxing year.
The miller’s house, that glimmered with grey walls,
Turned me aside; and for a while I leaned
Along the tottering rail beside the bridge
To watch the dripping mill-wheel green with damp.
The miller peered at me with shadowed eyes
And pallid face: I could not hear his voice
For sound of the weir’s plunging. He was old.
His days went round with the unhurrying wheel.
Moving along the street, each side I saw
The humble, kindly folk in lamp-lit rooms;
Children at table; simple, homely wives;
Strong, grizzled men; and soldiers back from war,
Scaring the gaping elders with loud talk.
Soon all the jumbled roofs were down the hill,
And I was turning up the grassy lane
That goes to the big, empty house that stands
Above the town, half-hid by towering trees.
I looked below and saw the glinting lights:
I heard the treble cries of bustling life,
And mirth, and scolding; and the grind of wheels.
An engine whistled, piercing-shrill, and called
High echoes from the sombre slopes afar;
Then a long line of trucks began to move.
It was quite still; the columned chestnuts stood
Dark in their noble canopies of leaves.
I thought: ‘A little longer I’ll delay,
And then he’ll be more glad to hear my feet,
And with low laughter ask me why I’m late.
The place will be too dim to show his eyes,
But he will loom above me like a tree,
With lifted arms and body tall and strong.’
There stood the empty house; a ghostly hulk
Becalmed and huge, massed in the mantling dark,
As builders left it when quick-shattering war
Leapt upon France and called her men to fight.


Lightly along the terraces I trod,
Crunching the rubble till I found the door
That gaped in twilight, framing inward gloom.
An owl flew out from under the high eaves
To vanish secretly among the firs,
Where lofty boughs netted the gleam of stars.
I stumbled in; the dusty floors were strewn
With cumbering piles of planks and props and beams;
Tall windows gapped the walls; the place was free
To every searching gust and jousting gale;
But now they slept; I was afraid to speak,
And heavily the shadows crowded in.
I called him, once; then listened: nothing moved:
Only my thumping heart beat out the time.
Whispering his name, I groped from room to room.
Quite empty was that house; it could not hold
His human ghost, remembered in the love
That strove in vain to be companioned still.
II
Blindly I sought the woods that I had known
So beautiful with morning when I came
Amazed with spring that wove the hazel twigs
With misty raiment of awakening green.
I found a holy dimness, and the peace
Of sanctuary, austerely built of trees,
And wonder stooping from the tranquil sky.
Ah! but there was no need to call his name.
He was beside me now, as swift as light.
I knew him crushed to earth in scentless flowers,
And lifted in the rapture of dark pines.
‘For now,’ he said, ‘my spirit has more eyes
Than heaven has stars; and they are lit by love.
My body is the magic of the world,
And dawn and sunset flame with my spilt blood.
My breath is the great wind, and I am filled
With molten power and surge of the bright waves
That chant my doom along the ocean’s edge.
‘Look in the faces of the flowers and find
The innocence that shrives me; stoop to the stream
That you may share the wisdom of my peace.
For talking water travels undismayed.
The luminous willows lean to it with tales
Of the young earth; and swallows dip their wings
Where showering hawthorn strews the lanes of light.
‘I can remember summer in one thought


Of wind-swept green, and deeps of melting blue,
And scent of limes in bloom; and I can hear
Distinct the early mower in the grass,
Whetting his blade along some morn of June.
‘For I was born to the round world’s delight,
And knowledge of enfolding motherhood,
Whose tenderness, that shines through constant toil,
Gathers the naked children to her knees.
In death I can remember how she came
To kiss me while I slept; still I can share
The glee of childhood; and the fleeting gloom
When all my flowers were washed with rain of tears.
‘I triumph in the choruses of birds,
Bursting like April buds in gyres of song.
My meditations are the blaze of noon
On silent woods, where glory burns the leaves.
I have shared breathless vigils; I have slaked
The thirst of my desires in bounteous rain
Pouring and splashing downward through the dark.
Loud storm has roused me with its winking glare,
And voice of doom that crackles overhead.
I have been tired and watchful, craving rest,
Till the slow-footed hours have touched my brows
And laid me on the breast of sundering sleep.’
III
I know that he is lost among the stars,
And may return no more but in their light.
Though his hushed voice may call me in the stir
Of whispering trees, I shall not understand.
Men may not speak with stillness; and the joy
Of brooks that leap and tumble down green hills
Is faster than their feet; and all their thoughts
Can win no meaning from the talk of birds.
My heart is fooled with fancies, being wise;
For fancy is the gleaming of wet flowers
When the hid sun looks forth with golden stare.
Thus, when I find new loveliness to praise,
And things long-known shine out in sudden grace,
Then will I think: ‘He moves before me now.’
So he will never come but in delight,
And, as it was in life, his name shall be
Wonder awaking in a summer dawn,
And youth, that dying, touched my lips to song.
Flixécourt. May .

88

The One-Legged Man

The One-Legged Man
Propped on a stick he viewed the August weald;
Squat orchard trees and oasts with painted cowls;
A homely, tangled hedge, a corn-stalked field,
And sound of barking dogs and farmyard fowls.
And he’d come home again to find it more
Desirable than ever it was before.
How right it seemed that he should reach the span
Of comfortable years allowed to man!
Splendid to eat and sleep and choose a wife,
Safe with his wound, a citizen of life.
He hobbled blithely through the garden gate,
And thought: ‘Thank God they had to amputate!’
93

The Investiture

The Investiture
GOD with a Roll of Honour in His hand
Sits welcoming the heroes who have died,
While sorrowless angels ranked on either side
Stand easy in Elysium’s meadow-land.
Then you come shyly through the garden gate,
Wearing a blood-soaked bandage on your head;
And God says something kind because you’re dead,
And homesick, discontented with your fate.
If I were there we’d snowball Death with skulls;
Or ride away to hunt in Devil’s Wood
With ghosts of puppies that we walked of old.
But you’re alone; and solitude annuls
Our earthly jokes; and strangely wise and good
You roam forlorn along the streets of gold.
110

The Heritage

The Heritage
Cry out on Time that he may take away
Your cold philosophies that give no hint
Of spirit-quickened flesh; fall down and pray
That Death come never with a face of flint:
Death is our heritage; with Life we share
The sunlight that must own his darkening hour:
Within his very presence yet we dare
To gather gladness like a fading flower.
For even as this, our joy not long may live
Perfect; and most in change the heart can trace
The miracle of life and human things:
All we have held to destiny we give;
Dawn glimmers on the soul-forsaken face;
Not we, but others, hear the bird that sings.
102

The Goldsmith

The Goldsmith
This job’s the best I’ve done.’ He bent his head
Over the golden vessel that he’d wrought.
A bird was singing. But the craftsman’s thought
Is a forgotten language, lost and dead.
He sighed and stretch’d brown arms. His friend came in
And stood beside him in the morning sun.
The goldwork glitter’d.... ‘That’s the best I’ve done.
‘And now I’ve got a necklace to begin.’
This was at Gnossos, in the isle of Crete...
A girl was selling flowers along the street.
102

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Identification and basic context

Siegfried Loraine Sassoon was an English poet and soldier. He was born in 1886 and died in 1967. His family was of Anglo-Jewish and English descent. Sassoon was born into a wealthy family, which provided him with a privileged upbringing. He was a British subject and wrote primarily in English.

Childhood and education

Sassoon was the second of three sons born to Alfred Ezra Sassoon and Theresa Olga Cecily Torrens. His father was from the prominent Sassoon banking family. His mother, known as 'Lisa', was of Persian Jewish and English background. He was educated at Marlborough College and later attended Clare College, Cambridge, though he did not take a degree. He spent much of his early adult life hunting, playing cricket, and writing poetry, living off his inheritance.

Literary trajectory

Sassoon began writing poetry in his early twenties. His initial works were largely Georgian in style, characterized by pastoral themes and a gentle lyricism. However, his experiences in World War I profoundly altered his perspective and poetic output. After serving on the Western Front and witnessing the brutal realities of trench warfare firsthand, his poetry became a powerful instrument of protest and disillusionment. He gained significant recognition for his stark, angry, and honest depictions of the war. He published numerous collections throughout his life, evolving from romantic ideals to profound social and spiritual commentary.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Sassoon's most famous works include the collections *The Old Huntsman and Other Poems* (1917), *Counter-Attack and Other Poems* (1918), and *Picture-Show* (1919). His war poetry is characterized by its directness, irony, and savage indignation, often using vivid imagery to convey the physical and psychological toll of conflict. Themes such as the futility of war, the suffering of soldiers, the hypocrisy of politicians, and the loss of innocence are central. His style evolved from the traditional forms of his early work to a more forceful and direct address in his war poems, often employing sharp contrasts and satirical tones. He experimented with rhythm and meter to enhance the impact of his verse. Later works explored more personal and spiritual themes, moving away from overt political protest.

Cultural and historical context

Sassoon lived through the tumultuous period of World War I, which served as a pivotal catalyst for his literary output. He was associated with the Georgian poets at the beginning of his career but became a leading voice of anti-war poetry, often seen as a precursor to the disillusionment of later modernist writers. His public denunciation of the war effort, including his famous speech at the Houses of Parliament in 1917, placed him at odds with the prevailing patriotic sentiment and military establishment. He was part of a literary milieu that included figures like Robert Graves and Wilfred Owen.

Personal life

Sassoon's personal life was marked by significant events and relationships. His mother's death when he was young had a lasting impact. His military service in World War I was a defining period, leading to injuries and profound psychological trauma. He married Hester Gatty in 1933, with whom he had a son, David Sassoon. Their marriage eventually ended. Sassoon's close friendships, notably with Wilfred Owen, were crucial, as was his later relationship with the poet and psychologist Dr. Stephen Tomlinson. His experiences, including his periods of disillusionment and search for meaning, informed his later poetry and his eventual conversion to Catholicism.

Recognition and reception

Sassoon received considerable recognition during his lifetime, particularly for his war poetry, which was seen as a vital counterpoint to official narratives of the conflict. He was awarded the Military Cross for bravery in action. His work was highly regarded by critics and the public alike for its emotional honesty and powerful indictment of war. While his reputation as a war poet has remained enduring, critical analysis has also focused on the depth and complexity of his later, more introspective works.

Influences and legacy

Sassoon was influenced by poets such as William Morris and Thomas Hardy. His own work, particularly his unflinching portrayal of war, profoundly influenced subsequent generations of war poets and writers who sought to grapple with the realities of conflict. His legacy lies in his courageous articulation of disillusionment and his contribution to a more realistic and critical mode of poetic expression. He remains a central figure in the study of WWI literature.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Sassoon's poetry is often interpreted as a powerful testament to the human cost of war and a scathing critique of the political and social forces that perpetrate it. Critics have analyzed the tension between his initial romantic sensibilities and the harsh realism imposed by his wartime experiences. His later work is explored for its exploration of faith, doubt, and the search for spiritual solace in the aftermath of trauma. The evolution of his poetic voice from anger to a more reflective and sometimes elegiac tone is a key area of critical discussion.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite his reputation as a fierce critic of war, Sassoon was a decorated soldier who displayed considerable bravery. He was known for his passion for hunting and country life before the war, which starkly contrasts with his later pacifist leanings. A significant event was his intentional self-wounding and subsequent declaration against the war at the Houses of Parliament, which led to him being sent to Craiglockhart War Hospital, where he met Wilfred Owen. His diaries and letters provide rich material for understanding his complex personality and creative process.

Death and memory

Siegfried Sassoon died of a heart attack in 1967 at the age of 80. His death marked the end of an era for English poetry. He is remembered as one of the foremost poets of the First World War and a significant voice in 20th-century literature. His works continue to be read, studied, and performed, ensuring his memory and the power of his protest endure.